


Actions  Louder than Words

by w0rdinista (Niamh_St_George)



Series: Amelle Hawke [1]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-01
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-04 15:25:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niamh_St_George/pseuds/w0rdinista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary:  Set post "All That Remains" quest.  Fenris comforts Hawke, returning to her rooms for the first time since he walked out.  Emotions and memories are complicated things, and sometimes words turn out not to be so empty after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Actions  Louder than Words

The Hanged Man has never seemed to Fenris the sort of place one goes for a nice, quiet drink. It's boisterous at the best of times -- but tonight the conversation upstairs nearly drowns out all going on below. Anders and Aveline are locked in heated debate. They are _all_ in varying stages of shock -- those who were with Hawke at the time feel the events more keenly, of course, and so Aveline's fraying temper should be no surprise, and yet Anders continues to needle and provoke her.

 _Typical_ , Fenris thinks, setting his jaw and looking away. He finds he has even less patience than usual for the mage this night.

Anders leans his forearms against the table, shaking his head the captain. "--And _I'm_ saying that it wasn't magic that did this at all -- it was the work of a _madman_. One who had killed _before now._ "  The unspoken accusation seems to hang heavily in the air:  _One the city guard ought to have caught._

"A lunatic, yes, but a lunatic _mage_ ," the guard captain retorts hotly, leveling a glare in Anders' direction.

"Oh, that's so _typical_ of you," he spits back. "What Quentin did is not representative of the rest--"

Varric has clearly had enough of this -- they all have; arguing about this after the fact serves no purpose -- and pinches the bridge of his nose as he waves a hand at them. "Guys, _guys,_ could we maybe can the political posturing for five minutes? Unless it's escaped your notice, we've got a few more important things on our plates right now."

With those words, the dwarf reminds the two why they are all there tonight; Anders and Aveline both look away, shamed and suddenly preoccupied with the tankards of ale before them. Aveline's complexion reddens, though whether it is with embarrassment at having to be reminded why they're there at all; anger with Anders (Fenris cannot blame her if that is the case); or the heavy guilt twined throughout the tragedy of such a senseless death -- the city guards' most personal tragedy so far -- it is impossible to guess. Fenris suspects she feels the sting of responsibility -- _she_ was the one who thought Emeric's claims were a waste of time, after all. She was the one who shuffled the job off to Hawke in the first place.

"That's better," the dwarf said, once things settle down. "Now, instead of bashing our _very many_ opinions into each other's heads, I think we need to figure out just what we're going do about this on a more... immediate basis. Hawke's hurting, and considering some of the shit she's put up with from us, it's time we return the favor. So, what's our plan?"

"One of us should go and... and see her," Merrill says, fidgeting with her untouched mug of ale. "Not all of us at once, of course, that'd be too much… and probably very crowded, but... one of us, I think."

"Agreed, Daisy," Varric replies, leaning back in his chair and surveying the rest of the table's occupants. "What about it, Rivaini? Aveline? You're pretty good friends with her."

Isabela looks pained for a moment, then stares down at her hands. "I'm… I'm no good at things like that, Varric. You know that.  Short of getting her soused, I don't think I'd be able make her feel better in any sort of... useful way."

Aveline sighs, and pain flickers in her eyes; she feels Hawke's loss deeply -- she arrived in Kirkwall with the family, as Fenris recalls it. She has known Hawke longer than the rest of them, but the tallying of days, months, and years is... unimportant just then. "I could go. Not sure what I'd say either, but... Varric's right.  _Someone_ should check in on her. Make sure she's all right."

"I think it… probably ought to be me," says Anders, pushing his mug around in a small circle on the table. "We are both mages, after all. We have that in common, at least."

Fenris holds his tongue. But it's Merrill who speaks up, looking confused and tilting her head a fraction as she blinks at him. "Are you sure about that, Anders? She does get rather grumpy around you. More so since Carver joined the templars, I think."

Fenris agrees, however silently. Hawke tolerates Anders' templar hatred less since her brother joined their ranks.

Anders shakes his head. "I don't see what--"

But Fenris has had enough of this -- too much talk, too few things actually _done._  The sound of his chair scraping noisily across the floor cuts through the room, interrupting Anders' reply. The noise jars them all -- all, save Varric. Of course. The dwarf is too observant by half.

"I will go," he says, standing.

The table goes silent, and Fenris is all too aware of it -- the noise downstairs seems to triple. He spares only the barest glance around the table, but he can't miss Merrill's smile. He hates it; she's only just stopped _accusing_ him of having _feelings_ for Hawke. This will doubtless reawaken such talk again, and Fenris' patience for Merrill's annoyingly astute prattle had been limited the first time around. Varric and Aveline look entirely unsurprised -- the dwarf looks _smug_ , in fact. Isabela tilts back lazily in her chair and smirks at him. Sebastian, on the other hand, looks strangely relieved -- Fenris finds it odd that _he_ hadn't volunteered comfort; as a brother of the Chantry, it is Sebastian who is the most qualified of all of them to provide solace after such tragedy _._

"Good idea, elf," Varric agrees with an authoritative nod. "And let us know--"

"Wait, _what_?" Anders blurts, looking between Varric and Fenris. "Have you all gone completely mad?  _Fenris_? How in the Maker's name could he possibly provide any measure of comfort to Hawke right now, short of an I-told-you-so and a scathing lecture on all the evils of magic? He's never made a secret of how he feels about mages; everyone at this table knows it."

A heavy blanket of silence settles over the table, this one more uncomfortable than the last. Fenris keeps his gaze locked on Varric, who only shakes his head minutely. 

 _Don't start this now, elf,_ his eyes seem to say.  _More important things to do._  

Fenris gives only the barest nod, never pulling his eyes from the dwarf. After far too many seconds, it is Isabela who clears her throat, breaking the silence.

"Perhaps we'll just say Hawke's quite the... _ambassador_ for all things magic, and let it rest at that, hmm?"

Anders blinks hard at her, processing what she's saying, the way her words are loaded with innuendo -- even more than usual for the pirate queen. "...You're _joking_." Isabela only shrugs.

Without further comment, Fenris nods firmly at Varric. "I will let you know how she is."

"Good. Let us know if we need to send Rivaini in there with a bottle of whiskey or... whatever. Whatever it takes."

Fenris turns and leaves Varric's suite -- he's only halfway down the stairs when he hears the conversation ramp up again. He doesn't have to guess at their newest topic, and has no interest in overhearing any of it. He shakes his head and heads for the door, pushing it open and vanishing into the cool night air.

The walk from The Hanged Man to Hightown is a long one, made longer by both the hour and recent nights' events -- and by his task, now looming darkly ahead of him. What possessed him to take such an initiative? He has no experience -- that he knows of, anyway -- in comforting _anyone,_ much less anyone who's lost as much as Hawke has in one night. A flash of cold, cruel honesty whispers to him that she may not even want to see him. There is a chance -- there is always a chance -- she will simply send him away.

Fenris isn't sure if that thought provides relief or simply more anxiety. But the idea of Hawke suffering at all makes something twist and clench sharply inside him. He cannot simply turn his back on her now. Even if she throws him out, he will bear it gladly.

_I will try. If she wishes my company, then so be it. If not, then it's simply the Maker's will, and someone else can make the attempt where I've failed. Sebastian, perhaps._

That leaves a bitter taste on his tongue for reasons he isn't quite ready to consider just then, and he shrugs it away. 

Once he reaches Hightown, Fenris finds his memory flooded with images of the last time he followed this route.  Odd that he should have such a strained relationship with his own memory -- a wasteland filled with chasms and shadows -- and yet the memory of his last visit to Hawke's home should stick so firmly, so _vividly_ in his mind. He remembers every failed attempt to talk himself out of leaving the mansion at all, every argument he presented himself with during that short walk across Hightown to her home. 

_She is a mage._

_She is all I have grown to hate._

_She cannot truly want me._

But they had been weak arguments, mere echoes of his own fears, and he'd walked on despite them. He can even remember thinking, fleetingly, feverishly, that perhaps she'd enchanted him somehow, for all she had occupied his thoughts so wholly.

And now he stands on her front step, hesitating before raising a hand and knocking quietly against the heavy door. It opens only moments later to reveal Bodhan, his lined, expressive face showing every ounce of grief he feels. He seems... strangely glad to see Fenris, and the elf isn't sure what to make of this.

"Mistress Hawke is… upstairs, messere," Bodhan says, stepping back and allowing Fenris entry. "She hasn't wanted to see anyone, but..."

"I will not stay if she doesn't wish it," replies Fenris. Bodhan only nods, casting a worried glance at the second floor landing. 

The house itself is eerily unchanged; Orana stands at a nearby table, tearfully arranging flowers in a vase. For a brief moment, Fenris feels the sudden burn of embarrassment when he'd assumed the worst of what turned out to be a perfectly respectable job offer. He should have known better, even then.

It is a long, slow ascent to her bedchamber, and with every step Fenris wonders if he's miscalculated this visit. Does he have any right to be here -- any right to comfort Hawke _now_?

The room has changed little since the last time he was here, and yet Fenris can't decide if that night feels like a lifetime ago, or mere days. In truth, it's been a month since he followed her up the stairs and into this sanctuary. Barely a month since they'd stood before this very hearth, mouths sealed against each other as hands -- eager and impatient -- clutched and pulled at armor and clothing. Again his memory, his traitorous memory, mocks him with images of all they'd done within these walls. He remembers her touch -- her hands spilling with barely suppressed arcane energy, trembling as she undressed him.

 _"I'm so sorry,"_ she'd whispered into his ear.  _"I'm trying to keep it all in, but you…"_

Trying to keep her magic in check. For him. It shamed him to admit he hadn't minded that tingling warmth against his skin in the least. For all he doesn't want to remember -- especially now, Fenris can still feel her touch, infused with that indescribable _something_ \-- healing energy, she'd told him. Magic.

_"Don't."_

_"I know, Fenris. I’m trying--"_

_"No. Do not feel you must... restrain yourself so."_

He never told her, _dared_ not tell her more about that glorious moment when every last memory and thought had come back to him, dangling oh, so temptingly within his reach. When it all vanished again, it had been the memory of _her_ hands on him, _her_ lips against his skin that had blanked everything else out, like the sun breaking blindingly through clouds. Every time Fenris tries -- and, oh, he still tires -- to grab hold of those memories, he sees _her_ instead, and he finds himself drowning in the sense-memory of her mouth, of her skin, of her body clenching eagerly, greedily around--

He shakes his head briskly to clear it. Yes, this room holds powerful memories, indeed. But as his vision clears, the sight he sees is one he wishes he could banish from his mind's eye forever -- and yet Fenris doubts he'll be able to purge it so easily.

Hawke is sitting on the bed, shoulders hunched, staring unseeingly at her hands. She looks... small. Fragile.

He realizes, quite abruptly, that has no idea what to say to her. Railing against magic, the problems it causes, the many ways it infects and ruins and _spoils_ all it touches seems... cold.  Heartless.  Cruel.  Hawke already knows too well all she's lost, and she knows all too well _how_ she lost it. It is something Fenris has not considered before: that magic can hurt even mages; that _mages_ can find themselves as wholly innocent targets. Victims. For all that Hawke has tried to use her magic to improve circumstances and lives around Kirkwall, she can still suffer at the hands of someone who has abused his own power. He wants to reach out to her -- and he wants to _leave._  He hesitates a moment in the doorway, watching her, wondering what in blazes he's going to _say._

When the words finally come, they are marked with hesitation -- he hides that poorly. He hides much poorly, when it comes to this woman.

"I... don't know what to say, but I am here."

She doesn't startle; she barely moves. When she speaks, the words sound as if they are being ripped from her. "Please... say something, Fenris.  _Anything_."

The plea in her voice is more than he can bear, and for a moment he struggles, his mind racing for _something_ to say that will fill this void. "It has been said that... death is but a journey." He pauses, hating the words even as he says them. They are trite. Meaningless. Empty. "Does that help?" He knows it doesn't. 

_That_ makes her look up, and for a moment it looks as if all the fire she controls at the tips of her fingers is roiling inside her -- a storm of flame that flashes in her eyes. "How is _that_ supposed to help?"

He sighs and moves closer to the bed, sitting down next to her. "It doesn't," he answers honestly. "But you did ask me to say something." 

That much was true, and Hawke knows it.   Her shoulders slump minutely, as if that tiny bit of fire sparking inside of her has suddenly guttered out. Truly, Fenris would prefer to see her blazing with righteous anger, flames licking to life around slender fingers readying a fireball, or lightning dancing in jagged arcs around her and she in the center of it, the very eye of the storm itself -- this, though, this is painful to witness.

"I did," she manages, her voice choked. "I'm sorry; you didn't… deserve that." Her shoulders shudder again with sobs she refuses to release, and she bows her head. She trembles, and Fenris wonders why he thought himself qualified to come at all.

"To be honest," he says, more quietly, "I don't think there is much point in filling these moments with empty talk."

She nods as if she agrees with him, but she keeps looking at her hands. He tilts his head and follows her gaze when he sees it -- her hands are fairly vibrating with arcane energy, ripples of faintest light emanating from her fingertips. Only then does he begin to grasp what's raging inside of her; Hawke is too mindful of her own power, and for as long as he's known her, she has always been careful about keeping that power in check. She'd once told him that it was little more than a survival technique -- templars tended not to guess you were a mage if your hands weren't glowing, after all -- but Fenris believes it is something more than that, something deeper. She has a respect for her own abilities he's never known any other mage to possess.

In that moment, he begins to feel a thread of worry for her.

"Maybe they're right," she finally says, fairly spitting the words out. "Maybe we _ought_ to be locked up like wild dogs. Maybe we truly have no right mingling with normal people." She looks up at him and he sees raw pain in her eyes, scraped over and bleeding, and he _hates_ that he can find no words to say. He has never been a wordsmith -- he is a warrior, not a poet, and has trouble expressing his feelings under the best circumstances. He is, however, intimately acquainted with anger, and he can see it clearly now in the tense line of her shoulders, the twitching muscle in her jaw, the hard edge in her eyes -- he recognizes that helpless fury, and he decides it is better for now if he lets this storm rage.

 "Who's to say _I_ won't go mad someday?" she grinds out through gritted teeth.  "For all that I try to do the _right bloody thing_ time and again, I could falter too.  I could slip. I could decide, just this once, that blood-magic -- under _certain conditions_ \-- is just the same as any other magic. That letting a _spirit_ possess me is acceptable under _certain circumstances_." She sighs, rubbing hard at her forehead. "The Knight-Captain said as much, didn't he? Mages may be able to resist temptation, but can they resist it forever? Can I?"

It is not a question he can answer, and they both know this. But Fenris knows he must do something.  Very quietly he stands and pulls his sword free, setting it down before he begins removing his gauntlets. She doesn't look up when he moves, and he has a few suspicions regarding her assumptions.

 _I'm not leaving you. Not now._  

He wants to say the words -- they're burning in his throat -- but he _can't._  Actions, for now, will have to speak for him.

"You're right, Fenris," she says, and he can hear -- and _hates_ \-- the bleak hopelessness in her voice.  There is an ache there that hits him, and his heart clenches with it. He sets his jaw and places his gauntlets carefully, deliberately, on the mantle, leaning against it a moment, his fingers gripping the wood too hard as the fire blazes before him. He's stood in this spot before, and the sudden flash of déjà vu rocks him almost to the point of unsteadiness. He pushes the sensation aside and removes the rest of his armor; now is not the time.

Finally, Fenris draws in a breath and turns, words -- words that are not empty, not by a long shot -- resting upon his lips. But she speaks again, before he takes his chance.

"You've always _been_ right. Magic spoils everything."

She's still staring at her hands, and it only occurs to Fenris now that what she sees is her mother's blood upon them. The words he was going to say vanish from his tongue, slipping into the ether, and once again he feels adrift. Yes, he _had_ said those very words to her, Hadriana's blood still hot and slick on his hands, rage tinting his vision red -- he'd lashed out at her at the time, though he can barely remember what exactly he'd spat out at her as he shrugged off her touch.

_Don't comfort me._

Ah, yes. There it is. If Fenris can count upon nothing else, he can count upon his memory to betray him, at least. He gives his head a shake and crosses the room, sitting next to Hawke once again.

"There was nothing I could have done, that's the worst of it," she says. Her voice sounds choked, as if her throat is closing, straining under the weight of her words. Under the weight of responsibility -- and whether responsibility real or simply perceived, that weight still exists. Fenris knows this.  

"If there HAD been some blood-magic spell, some demon to make a deal with--" This makes Fenris turn sharply, his eyes widening as he stares at her.   "--I'd have bloody well _taken it_ if it meant saving Mother." 

Her voice breaks at the last and the rage that has been burning through her, sustaining her, crumbles. The tension radiating throughout her body cracks, and with a shudder, she seems as if to fold in upon herself, burying her face in her hands. She sobs, and it's a harsh, wracking sound that tears raggedly in her throat, over and over again until he can hear her voice growing hoarse. She cries, holding nothing back, and he wonders for a moment if she has allowed herself to cry at all so far.

"I do not believe that," he says, and for a moment Fenris doesn't quite realize he's spoken at all. When Hawke looks up with a wet sniffle, her eyes are reddened, tears clinging to her lashes. Anger surges again and she growls out her words from between gritted teeth as she glares at him.

"Don't _lie_ to me, Fenris. If nothing else, you surely believe _that._ "

"No, Amelle. I do not."

He hasn't used her given name since that night, and that he has used it now has certainly had an effect, though Fenris cannot say for certain what that effect is. Hawke's eyes widen minutely, and she gives a slight jerk, though whether the reaction is truly a flinch or if he simply startled her, he cannot be sure.

"I do not believe it of you," he says again, and it is not a lie. He has never lied to her; he will not start now. Especially not now.

She's staring at him like he's a puzzle, a riddle to be worked out. No doubt she's trying to find some hidden meaning in his words, or perhaps trying to anticipate something beyond what he is actually saying.

"How can you possibly know that?" she finally breathes, her voice a thin, thready whisper.

 _Because I know you,_ he thinks. But those words will not form. Such an admission is too big, too... _much_ , right now, anyway. He's not quite ready to give voice to such a thought -- in essence, confronting it. He's not quite ready to consider whether or not there is any truth to it -- though he feels there _must_ be; it _feels_ true.

In fact, it feels as true as it does terrifying.

"I have seen you," he says instead. "The decisions you make -- whether or not I agree with them -- are not ones you come to lightly. I do not believe you would take such a risk."

"If it meant _saving_ \--"

"What would you tell her, then?" he says, cutting her off sharply, narrowing his eyes and leaning close. "What would you tell your mother? Do you think she'd have been _proud_ to know you made a deal with a demon, no matter how noble your intentions?"

"She would be _alive--_ "

He slices off her words with a gesture. " _At what cost?_ "

Tears well up again and spill forward as she shakes her head. "I don't _care_ what the cost, Fenris!"

"I do not believe that, either."

 _"What do you know?"_ she yells.

"I know she was proud of you," he says, lowering his voice. "Would she have been quite as proud of an abomination, I wonder? Or a blood mage -- would she have been _proud_ of her daughter for employing the very arts that had been used upon her -- that had abused her -- in such a way?"

 _That_ makes her flinch, and she looks away. "I can't--" she begins, and stops. But Fenris simply sits quietly, and waits. Hawke bites down hard on her lip and he can _see_ her struggling. He trusts she will find her own words; he doesn't need to coax them from her.

"I couldn't fix this," she finally manages, the words coming out in a tumble. "I couldn't heal her -- couldn't _save_ her. I... what _good_ is it, being able to do _any_ of this--" she flings her hand forward and a jolt of blue light flares in her palm, "--if I couldn't keep my own mother _safe?_ "

He exhales slowly. There is no easy answer for her -- no satisfying answer, at least, he's sure. "There are things beyond your power. You know this. And though it is painful, you... you _do_ accept that." He's silent a moment, regarding her. "And _that_ is what makes you... unique."

"And how can you be sure I'll stay that way?" she asks wearily. "I'm not even sure of it."

 _I will not let you fall,_ he thinks. But again, those are words he cannot quite give voice to just yet, for all they burn true beneath his breast.  What he says instead is, "Then perhaps you will simply have to... trust me."

Amelle watches him for a long moment, saying nothing at all. Silence, though, doesn't bother him. It's only when he notices her eyes are tracking the design of his tattoos that he feels the silence _change_. Hawke reaches hesitantly for his hand, taking it slowly in both of hers. Her fingers follow the markings with a light, questing touch, and he can feel the faint frisson of energy against his skin as she touches him, tracing a path across his knuckles, along his fingers. Then she stops and her fingers tighten slightly as she brings his hand to her heart. 

Fenris freezes, barely resisting the urge to pull his hand away, but she stops him with a look.

"I trust you to stop me if I do."

He knows what she means, what she wants -- what she's asking him to do. He swallows hard, but does not break away from her gaze. 

"If that is what you require, then... I give you my word."

_And pray to the Maker it never comes to pass._


End file.
